Monday, May 18, 2009

Smarty pants scientists of every kind will often tell you that no matter how technologically savvy we get, no matter how many cyborgs we create to do our disagreeable tasks, no matter how many flying cars we'll have dotting the sky like seeds on a strawberry, no matter how many shuttles to Mars that will have that obligatory first stop in Atlanta, those brainy types say without question there's no way we'll ever be able to travel through time.

Then how do you explain how I can go back to my 10th summer in front of our Bronx apartment building looking at the largest moon I ever saw in my young life, wondering if the Earth was about to be invaded whenever I hear Fool on the Hill by the Beatles? How do you explain that I can feel the humidity coming off the pavement of that July evening and smell the sticky cherry flavor of the Italian ice clinging to the air?

How could I possibly hear my dear friend Jeff, three years gone from this life, hear his voice humming, hear our feet under the soft pavement leading to the USF library, see the blades of grass in silver light whenever I hear Springsteen's 4th of July Asbury Park?

Those pointy headed scientists have yet to offer a plausible explanation that goes beyond sense memory to make me understand how the jolt of song in all its exacting vibrations, carved melodies and lyrics can take us from the present and then drop us so soundly in the past that it takes our breath away before we begin to sing along.